


Kids

by frankie_bell



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Birds of Prey (Comic), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Abortion, Canon Disabled Character, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Infertility, Motherhood, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-18 19:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18125192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_bell/pseuds/frankie_bell
Summary: She’s not a big believer in fate or karma or even religion. Bad things don’t happen for a reason. Bad things happen because people make choices, and those choices have ripples. Her infertility has nothing to do with some vengeful god punishing her for denying a baby when she still felt like one herself.Barbara Gordon grapples with the aftereffects of a decision she made during her Batgirl days — and what it means for her new life as Oracle.A story about denying, embracing, and accepting motherhood.





	Kids

Barbara Gordon is 23 years old when she has an abortion. She’s been engaged to Jason Bard — sweet, sensitive, too good to be real Jason Bard — for three months, and everything about their life together is conceptually perfect. Still, when she sees that unholy pink plus sign on the home pregnancy kit she picked up after patrol, she feels her stomach drop to her knees.

“I can’t be pregnant, I can’t be pregnant, I can’t be pregnant.”

The words rattle around her brain like a busted record, and she rushes to the 24-hour pharmacy to buy up their stock — Clearblue, First Response, Pregmate, ClinicalGuard, Pregnosis — all while fighting back the insane, borderline-Pavlovian urge to send a snapshot to Dick with the caption “boy wonder by night, copywriter by day?”

The bubblegum-chomping teen at the checkout counter — her nametag says 'Courtney' — rings her up with a dreamy smile, staring at the tiny diamond on her finger like it’s the end-all, be-all of female existence. “I’m sure your fiancé will be over the moon,” she says. Barbara doesn’t bother smiling back.

All five tests come back positive. She wants so badly to believe they’re faulty, that this is some Joker-level citywide prank on the women of Gotham, but the cold rationalism that takes over when Barbara looks in the mirror tells her everything she needs to know. She remembers reading a study published by the Mayo Clinic a few years back that said home pregnancy tests are 97.8% accurate.

Decision time. Wallowing is for… other people. 

Barbara sweeps the line of white plastic sticks back into her shopping bag, disposes of them in the dumpster outside ( _God forbid Dad see them in the bathroom garbage_ ), and sits down at her laptop to type up a list of pros and cons.

When, at the end of an hour, the only pros she can think of are ‘Dad wants to be a gramps someday’ and ‘It’s the next step,’ she knows what she has to do.

“Jason,” she says over the phone, her voice far calmer than her nerves, “we need to talk.”

He tells her he’s in the middle of a stakeout for a high-profile client, but agrees to meet for coffee at a diner near his office. _This_ , she thinks, _is exactly why we can’t have kids. His job is his life; my (night) job is my life._ She ignores the tiny voice whispering taunts about her wanting to retire Batgirl. After all, practical facts are easier to compute than the emotional reality that she thinks she’ll be a bad mother and genuinely can’t feel anything besides apathy when she tries to picture a baby with her eyes and Jason’s nose.

 

* * *

 

Jason is floored when she tells him, going on and on about how the point of birth control is to _control_ unwanted births. She perks up at his use of the word 'unwanted.' It’s the perfect segue into her explanation of why she’s chosen to have an abortion, but he beats her to the punch with —

“I’m sorry, Barb. I didn’t mean I don’t want this. I just meant that it’s unexpected. I know we weren’t planning for a baby, but it’ll be okay. Hell, knowing you, it’ll be better than okay. Great, even.”

“I don’t want it.” Barbara can’t bring herself to call the thing a baby, because in her mind, it isn’t. By her estimation, she’s only around two to three weeks pregnant, making her the host to a collection of unfeeling, unthinking cells.

Jason clearly doesn’t view it the same way.

“What do you mean you don’t want our baby?” he says, not quite angry, but certainly not calm. “Are you saying you want to — you want an abortion?”

“Yes.” Barbara stares into her murky coffee cup, then looks him directly in the eyes. She won’t let him make her feel guilty about this. “I’m only 23 years old, Jason. I don’t want to be a mother right now.” She leaves out the part about maybe not wanting it ever. “I have my job, and I was thinking about going to law school soon. Maybe even getting involved in politics.”

Jason grabs her hand across the table, runs his finger over her diamond ring. “You can still do all those things, Barbara. You’ll just have to do some of them a little bit later.”  
  
Barbara yanks her hand back into her lap. “And you, Jason? What will _you_ have to do later? Are you planning on leaving your job to be a stay-at-home dad?”

“Well, no, but…”

“But nothing. I’m not having it, and you don’t get to tell me otherwise.”

An older couple two booths away can’t hide their disgust for the topic of conversation, and it clearly makes Jason uncomfortable. “If I have no say in this, then why’d you even bother telling me?” he asks at a significantly lower volume.

This time, it’s Barbara who reaches across the table. It feels like they’re separated by miles. “Because you deserved to know,” she says as her fingers tangle with his. “It’s my body, and the final decision is mine, but I’d never do it without telling you. If you can’t marry me because of this, I understand, but I’m doing it regardless.”

Jason smiles sadly, but doesn’t let go of her hand. “We can always have kids a few years down the road.”

 _Good enough for now_ , Barbara thinks.

Maybe the maternal instinct will kick in by the time she’s 30.

 

* * *

 

A few months later, her spine is shattered by the Joker’s bullet, and any consideration of motherhood goes up in flames alongside her superhero persona, the texture of grass beneath her feet, the pleasant ache in her thighs after landing a back handspring, and just about everything else that made her feel whole. She doesn’t regret the abortion, and having kids doesn’t sound any more appealing than it did before she was shot (maimed, tortured, ruined), but the knowledge that she physically can’t feels like one more blow to her already fractured psyche. Who gives a shit if she doesn’t want them? The injustice of having anything more taken away from her makes Barbara want to scream herself hoarse.

The hospital is quiet — eerily so — and the lights are dimmed enough to pass for a horror movie (way to live up to stereotypes, Gotham). Barbara sits propped up in bed, her body pumped full of painkillers, her mind blessedly blank. She’s cried herself to sleep every night since it happened, but right now, she can’t work up a single tear. Jason came to visit the day she regained consciousness, but she refused to see him, instead sending Dr. Thompkins to the waiting room with her ring and a 'Dear John' letter. He’s tried to come back several times since then, but she's held firm. She knows it’s over, knows she needs to set him free, but she can’t bear seeing the look of pity etched across his face when she does it. Oh, sure, he’ll say he wants to stick by her — what kind of asshole leaves their recently crippled fiancée? — but he won’t mean it… at least, not in the way that counts. Barbara refuses to be the weight of obligation that drowns him. She won’t be that for anyone ever again.

“Barbara,” her father’s tired voice calls from the tattered lounge chair near the corner of the room.

Her head lolls against the pillow. Her hair is sticky with sweat and in need of a good washing. “Yeah, Dad?”

“I love you, sweetie,” he says, and she fights the urge to reply, “At least someone does.”

“I know, Dad,” is what she settles on instead, and when she turns away to avoid the mask of self-contempt she’s grown used to seeing on his face, she catches a glimpse of a shadowy figure peeking in her window from the ledge outside. She blinks, and it’s gone.

 

* * *

 

A few years later, when Barbara tells the Joker he took nothing from her, she truly means it. The first few weeks of her recovery were defined by despair and what she can only guess was clinical depression, but her journey overall has been one of tremendous growth and a sense of achievement that beats anything she ever did in a cape and cowl. Oracle allows her to fight the good fight in a way Batgirl never could, and the Birds of Prey give her a second chance at the life she stupidly thought was ripped away. Life isn’t just good, it’s great — and so is she. Some days, she feels like she has more power than even Superman could dream of possessing.

The only time she feels that same creeping insecurity, the kind that consumed her in those early days at Gotham General, is when she contemplates her value as a woman. Not as a teammate or a friend, a daughter or an information super source — no. Where does she stand as a sexual human being?

Enter Dick Grayson, forever her Boy Wonder, no matter how old he gets.

Barbara has loved Dick since practically the moment she met him. Back in those days, it had been an exasperated, sisterly type of love. He was 14 to her 18, an adorably impish kid in pixie boots and short pants who made her feel like she was the center of every universe. It felt good, being worshipped by Robin, but she never took any of his flirting to heart. He was young, flighty, and prone to fits of outlandishness. He was bound to move on to the next girl in skintight spandex who dared to laugh off his bad puns and even worse pick-up lines. But then, he started to mature, both physically and mentally, and she couldn’t pretend the attraction was one-sided anymore. He was older, sure — nearly 17 — but she was a 20-year-old woman! She couldn’t seriously be attracted to a high school student, no matter how seriously attractive he was. It wasn’t just that, though. He was smart and funny and wise beyond his years in a way that made Barbara ache for his lost childhood. He was also her best friend.

One night, after a particularly grueling patrol, he nearly shattered the tenuous glass wall between them, delivering an adorably rehearsed speech about how much he loved her, wanted her, how mature he was for his age. She could ignore the line where he compared her to his fifth-grade teacher, because, for the most part, everything he said was exactly what she felt. The way she figured it then, she had two options — kiss the ever-loving hell out of him and damn the consequences or pretend to be asleep. She chose the latter. She couldn’t let the wall come down. Who knew what would happen if it ever did?

Less than a year later, Bruce took Robin away from Dick, and he left home for good. He had the Titans, and she had Gotham, and that was that. They talked from time to time, and he never lost that spark of awe on his face when he looked at her, but he’d moved on. He had a steady girlfriend in New York — one as ungodly beautiful as him — and he seemed to love her with everything he had (Dick could never do anything halfway). Barbara was happy for him; she sincerely was. It was the right thing for everyone involved. When one of her dad’s former beat cops, Jason Bard, asked her out the weekend after she first met Koriand’r, she saw no reason to turn him down.

After her crippling, she couldn’t think about Dick or Jason or any other man on the face of the planet. She just wasn’t ready. And for two years, she parroted that same line to anyone who dared challenge her stance, be it Dinah, her father, Cass, Tim, or especially Dick himself. He’d broken his engagement to Kory (demonically possessed friend at the wedding — don’t ask), moved to Gotham’s shabby sister city, Bludhaven, and was a fixture in her life again from the moment he signed his lease. Part of her loved having him back, whether he was assisting the Birds of Prey in the field, breaking through her meticulous security systems to bring her takeout, or even having her perform sutures on several nasty battle wounds, but she could never shake the silent fear that he would always see her as that plucky 18-year-old who leap-frogged him into the dirt and took on Killer Moth single-handed. Batgirl was the Barbara he truly wanted — the able-bodied ballerina with a roundhouse kick that could put him in traction — not this faded version of his Technicolor dream girl.

But Dick fought back her self-loathing every time it crept up, vehement in his assertion that his love for her at 16, 17, 18 was nothing compared to the way he felt about her at 22. She wasn’t broken to him — not one bit — and the ‘harsh realities’ of her paraplegia never even entered into his mind when it came to pursuing a relationship with her. For a solid year, she tried to push him away, telling herself it was for his own good. He was still so young, so needy, so deeply alive in every way she wasn’t. Half the time, he couldn’t sit still long enough to have a conversation without pacing or climbing on furniture. And on top of it all, he was just so pretty, so wholly unmarred, that she failed to see what he could want with someone like her.

But persistence is a funny thing, and eventually, Dick won out. Barbara can’t find it in herself to be the least bit upset. All of her fears were unfounded, her concerns just thinly veiled excuses to avoid getting hurt one more time. The emotional connection they share is unlike any closeness she’s experienced in her 26 years of life. And the sex? She wants to laugh when she thinks about how long she forewent fucking Dick Grayson, because it is by far the hottest, filthiest, most ridiculously satisfying physical activity she’s ever taken part in (sorry, crime fighting).

“Oracle,” Dick’s voice crackles through the comm link as she watches his little blue dot on the computer, “the museum threat’s been neutralized.” 

Barbara lets out a breath she didn’t even realize she’d been holding. “And Canary?”

“Concussed a few eardrums, dropped a few bad guys.”

“I’m sure it had nothing on your stunning rendition of _Material Girl_ in my shower this morning.”

“Rude,” Dick says, and she can hear Dinah’s melodic laughter over the other channel.  

“Head home, you guys,” Barbara continues. “Get some rest, and we’ll reconvene tomorrow.”

She can hear the pout in Dick’s voice when he says, “I thought I was sleeping over.”

“The key word in that sentence was _rest_ , Man Wonder.” 

"Right," Dinah needles. "And by 'rest,' she means you'll waste most of the night playing a wholesome game of 'You pretend not to know I watch you undress on my pervy security cams, and I pretend not to realize you're putting on a show.'"

 

* * *

 

Less than 30 minutes later, he’s got her half-naked on the living room couch, two fingers buried inside her, and she know neither of them are getting any sleep tonight.

“Babs,” he whines deep in his throat, and sometimes, she still can’t believe she has this effect on him nearly ten years later. “Oh, shit, Babs… been thinking about you all day. About this.”

“Me, too,” she confesses, twisting her fingers through his hair and tugging hard to move his mouth back to hers. They kiss slowly for several minutes, and from the way her shoulders keep pushing insistently against the arm of the couch, she can tell that Dick’s grinding against her thigh as he fingers her. He’s always so eager to please, neglecting himself if it means taking his hands off her for even a second. It makes her feel supremely lucky, especially when she hears stories from fellow JLA heroines about their interoffice romances.

When he adds a third finger, she nearly screams, biting her lip to keep from waking the building next door. Within a few minutes, she’s coming so hard her vision is blurry, Dick breathing harshly in her ear and telling her how perfect and beautiful she is before removing his hand from between her legs. She takes it and brings it to her mouth, hoping she doesn’t look utterly ridiculous, then licks her own wetness off his fingers. He visibly shudders. The boy is too easy sometimes. 

“Saw that one in a porno,” Barbara jokes, and Dick can’t help but splutter. Maybe couples really do become more alike the longer they’re together?

They can’t stop smiling at each other (a common occurrence nowadays), and when Dick finally responds to her corny attempt at humor with a heartfelt, “I love you,” she replies with an equally heartfelt, “Want a blowjob?”

He stares at her, half-agog, half-offended.

She rolls her eyes. “I love you, too. Now, do you want that blowjob or not?”

Dick shakes his head ‘no’ and drops to his knees in front of the couch. “I’d rather blow you,” he says with a theatrical wink. Then: “And no, I did _not_ get that line from a porno. It’s an original.” 

“We really need to stop with the comedy routine, or no one’s getting blown tonight.”

“Fair,” Dick agrees, grabbing Barbara by her hips and positioning her at the edge of the couch. Her face and chest flush redder than her hair, and Dick pushes at her baggy sleep shirt to gain better access to her lower body. She’s glad she kept her glasses on, because the sight of his mouth on her inner thigh is enough to convince her brain that she can feel him. It’s a strange sensation, watching someone kiss you where you have no feeling, almost like an out-of-body experience, memorable precisely because of its detachment.

But then his mouth moves to her pussy, and she can _definitely_ feel that, and — oh, my God! — it’s so good. At first, he just runs his tongue against her, little kitten licks that make her breath come quick and her insides clench at nothing. When he moves to her clit, her fingers tighten painfully against his scalp; he doesn’t stutter, just moans loudly and doubles down on his lapping. He’s a bit of a masochist — has been since they were kids — always poking at bruises and picking at his stitches. She doesn’t judge, especially since it pairs nicely with her demanding personality quirks. 

She comes even harder the second time, too blissed out to care when she knocks the lamp off the side table.

“You okay, Babs?” Dick asks a moment later, his mouth still pressed against her, most likely kissing her thighs again.

“Better than,” she says, her voice fraying at the edges. She can barely think, much less speak, but she makes the effort. He deserves praise. “You’re obscenely good at that.”

He looks at her with that expression of awe he’s always had — the one that tells Barbara her mere existence amazes him — then gathers her in his arms and carries her to bed. They silent strip out of their remaining clothes, and Dick’s hand fumbles in her bedside table for a condom.

“Fuck,” he curses softy and falls against the pillows, “we have a condom crisis.” A pause, then: “That blowjob still on the table?”

Barbara sighs. She really wants to have sex, but giving a physiology lecture in bed is bound to shatter the mood. After all, there’s no good way to say, “Feel free to come inside me — my reproductive organs are as useless as my legs. Sorry I forgot to mention it the first 50 times I made you wear a condom.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” she mumbles, hoping he’ll settle for vagueness. “You don’t need a condom.”  
  
His expression is one of utter confusion. “You’re not on birth control, Babs.”

Leslie Thomkins’ words fight their way to the forefront of her mind: _“I’m so sorry, Barbara… lack of a normal menstrual cycle… extremely unlikely you’ll ever become pregnant… nothing you could have done…”_

“Right. I know. It’s just — not an issue for me.”

More confusion, then a flicker of understanding. Barbara chews her lower lip, hoping this revelation isn’t the beginning of the end she’s been dreading. They’ve never talked about it before, but she knows Dick wants kids, knows it in the same way she knows Bruce wants justice or Alfred wants a spotless kitchen and no shoes past the foyer. It’s a truth obvious enough to make verbal confirmation redundant.

Which is why Barbara is completely stupefied when he simply kisses her cheek and says, “And here I’ve been wasting my precious trust fund on prophylactics.”

That night, she has the best sex of her life followed by eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

 

* * *

 

Barbara becomes a mother for the first time the moment she lays eyes on Cassandra Cain. She doesn’t recognize it then, but her love for this girl — and, subsequently, for Stephanie Brown — will challenge everything she thought she knew about the kind of parent she could and will someday be.  

Falling in love with them isn’t work, and it isn’t a sacrifice. Nothing’s ever been easier, and for a while, she attributes this maternal pride and fierce protectiveness to friendship and sisterly affection (a go-to diagnosis for relationships she’d rather not realistically define). Both girls have mothers, after all — no matter how woefully lacking — and half the time, Barbara feels like her emotional instability leaves her teen protégés holding the maturity card. 

“Every parent, no matter how good their intentions, fucks up their kid,” Dick tells her one day while defending Bruce. “Lord knows I’ve messed up enough with Dami.” When Barbara reminds him that Damian Wayne is _not_ his son or his parental responsibility, he shrugs and says, “Isn’t he, though? I’m as much a father to that kid as you are a mother to Steph. Why do you think we fought so much over those two when Bruce was gone?”

Still, it takes the equivalent of a flashing neon sign to finally snap the gears into place, and Wally West is more than up for the challenge. Dick and Barbara have been married for a little over a year when he and his wife, Linda Park, announce they’re expecting twins. Barbara’s first thought is that it sounds like a body horror nightmare, but after seeing the unbridled joy on Wally’s face every time he mentions the babies kicking or hiccuping or trying to strangle each other in utero, she finds herself longing for the very thing she repeatedly told herself she never wanted and knows she can never have. 

Seeing the babies only makes things worse. The little girl, Irey, looks just like Wally, with her tuft of auburn hair and nose full of freckles, and her brother, Jai, is a mini Linda, complete with thick black hair (it looks like he’s wearing a toupee) and dark eyes.

“You did good, KF,” Dick congratulates his best friend while nuzzling the top of Irey’s head. “They’re perfect, right down to that new baby smell.”

Wally laughs. “It was nothing, man. I’m just the sperm donor. Linda did all the real work.”

“I sure did,” she agrees, beaming through sweat-slicked bangs and pink cheeks. She turns to Barbara and holds out a swaddled Jai. “Do you want to hold him?”

Barbara shakes her head emphatically. “No, I couldn’t possibly take him from you.”

“Trust me, beautiful,” Wally says, and she get the distinct (re: uncomfortable) feeling that he knows exactly why she’s hesitant, “you’ll be doing her a favor. We’re gonna be holding these rugrats for the next 18 years. May as well pawn 'em off on friends and family while they’re still cute.”

 _Well, can’t argue with that_ , Barbara thinks as she accepts the tiny blue bundle from her friend’s arms. His skin is wrinkly and splotched with red, yet he’s somehow the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. Upon closer inspection, she can see little pieces of Wally she missed before — the hook of Jai’s nose, the twist of his mouth, the sandy texture of his hair — and suddenly, he’s even more perfect. For a microscopic moment, she allows herself to think of a baby with Dick’s thick black hair and blue eyes, maybe a burst of her freckles across the cheeks and nose. It’s an image that makes her feel like she’s flying and falling at the same time.

“Babs,” Dick’s voice cuts through the fog of her rapidly spiraling mind, “you’re crying.”

Barbara tugs the sleeve of her sweater over her hand and swipes at her eyes. “I know,” she says, then covers with, “He’s just so small.”

She’s in a prickly mood that night, pushing Dick away when he tries to snuggle up to her in bed. His posture sags, and she can tell without turning around that he’s hurt. Her reluctance to open up about certain things has always bothered him, even though she’s made it clear she trusts him more than everyone else in her life combined. For as long as she can remember, Barbara’s been an introvert, preferring to silently suffer if it means saving herself from appearing fragile or weak. After her run-in with the Joker, this tendency to compartmentalize has only gotten worse.  

“You want to talk about what happened at the hospital earlier?” Dick asks, because he can never let a silence lapse for more than five minutes, goddamn him. 

“No.” 

“Barbara…” The note of understanding (not pity, not anger) in his voice nearly does her in.

“I can deal with my own emotional issues, thank you very much,” she says, squeezing her pillow petulantly. She doesn’t want to talk about it, but she knows she should. This affects both their lives, and if she doesn’t address it now, the pain will only fester. And down that road leads resentment, paranoia, and a host of demons she’d rather not name. 

“Did I ever tell you I had an abortion?” She phrases it as a question, but she already knows the answer. Eidetic memory and all that. 

Dick is silent for a moment. “No,” he replies, his voice whisper-quiet, his arms snaking around her waist and pulling her flush against him. The fact that he’s not repulsed by her is enough to make Barbara’s upper body go limp in his arms.

“I was 23,” she continues. “Jason wanted to keep it, but I wasn’t ready. I didn’t even think I wanted to be a mom back then.”

“And now?” Dick asks, unable to keep that tiny tremor of nervousness from his voice. He’s a good actor, the best Barbara’s ever met, but she knows him too well at this point to miss the small things. She’s confident he’ll accept whatever answer she gives him, but she knows deep down what he’s hoping to hear.

She turns in his arms and says, “I want a baby.” There. It’s done. She can’t take it back now, can’t pretend she doesn’t miss this perfect little person she never had to begin with. She’s not a big believer in fate or karma or even religion. Bad things don’t happen for a reason. Bad things happen because people make choices, and those choices have ripples. Her infertility has nothing to do with some vengeful god punishing her for denying a baby when she still felt like one herself. This is not her fault — it’s _his_. He took this away from her. Logically, she knows that.

But then, why does she feel guilty?

“Hey, look at me.” Dick tilts her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. If she knows him too well, then he knows her even better. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You said it yourself — you weren’t ready back then. You did what was right for you at the time, and no one can hold that against you.” He brushes his thumb against the curve of her cheek absentmindedly, then adds, “I don’t.”

Barbara swallows the heavy lump in her throat. “You mean it?”

“Of course I do,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He’s really good at that — at taking her doubts and anxieties and making them seem infinitesimal in the face of their shared history. It’s one of her absolute favorite things about him.

“I still can’t give you a baby,” she says, because as sweet as Dick is, his acceptance doesn’t solve the bigger problem at play.

His brow creases in that adorable way that promises overthinking. “I don’t want you to give me a baby, Babs. I want you to _want_ a baby.”

“I do, Dick,” she’s quick to reassure him. “So badly.”

He glows. “Then we’ll adopt one.”

“You’d do that for me?”

A lengthy pause.  
  
“I’m not sure I ever mentioned this,” Dick finally says, his voice tinged with laughter, “but Bruce isn’t my real father.”

Barbara smacks him with her pillow. “You’re such a loser.”

“I think I’m adorable,” he contends, then wrestles her down to the mattress. She fights him off feebly, her brain too focused on the future to care about winning in the here and now.

 

* * *

 

Dick and Barbara agree to spend the next year researching various adoption agencies and prepping for parenthood before officially taking the plunge. They’ve picked a small international outfit stationed in Metropolis, and Barbara has a contingency plan for just about any snag they might run into. The only thing left to do now is make an announcement to the family. 

“Can I have everyone’s attention, please,” Barbara cries across the comically long dining table. Stephanie stops cooing over Tim’s recent haircut, Jason ceases making fun of the same thing, and Damian looks up from the dog hidden beneath the tablecloth that he definitely shouldn’t be feeding. Cassandra and Bruce, meanwhile, continue eating in stoic silence. Barbara clears her throat, then continues, “Dick and I have an important announcement we’d like to make.”

“You’re leaving him for me,” Jason says with total calm.   

Damian scoffs. “That’s preposterous, Todd. Divorce is for the weak and feebleminded. Gordon would never allow it.”  
  
“Ouch, Damian,” Dick jokes, and at the same time, Barbara says, “Thank you, Damian, but no one’s divorcing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with divorce,” Stephanie can’t help mumbling under her breath, and Tim grabs her hand between their plates. It makes Barbara smile.

Bruce’s knife scrapes against the good china. “Well, what is it?”

“Please,” Alfred adds while refilling Damian’s glass, “don’t keep us in suspense.”

They’ve been trying ineffectually to make the spritely butler sit down and eat with the rest of the family for at least twenty minutes. In typical fashion, he refuses to listen.

“We’re adopting a baby!” Dick can barely contain his enthusiasm.

Stephanie jumps from her chair like her butt’s on fire, running around the table to hug Barbara and punch Dick in the arm. “You guys, this is so awesome,” she says, and Alfred nods his agreement.

“Truly splendid news, Master Dick.”

Even Jason is smiling. “Wow. Barbie’s about to have a Skipper of her very own.”  
  
“Skipper is Barbie’s sister,” Tim corrects, “not her child.”  
  
Jason’s eyes roll to the back of his head. “Whatever, Replacement.” 

The rest of the night proceeds in a similar fashion, with different members of the family pulling the happy couple aside to share their own unique brand of excitement. Barbara even catches the beginning of a smile twisting the corner of Bruce’s mouth when he pats Dick on the back and tells her she’ll make an "excellent mother.” The only one who seems less than pleased about the budding bat population is Damian, who abandons dinner before the chocolate cake is served, mumbling under his breath about security risks and tainted bloodlines (that last bit makes Barbara yearn for an escrima stick to beat his pampered ass). Dick notices the little snot’s absence right away and disappears upstairs for the better part of an hour. When he comes back down with a grinning Damian trailing behind him, Barbara feels her chest tighten in a way that reminds her of flying over rooftops with the wind biting at her face. Dick is going to be such a fantastic father to her child. Children. Looking at him right now, she thinks she might adopt a zoo.

On the drive back to the Clocktower, she finds herself asking, “Does Damian think you should find a woman who can give you biological children?” With the way that kid goes on about being the one true heir to Batman’s legacy, she wouldn’t be the least bit surprised. Then again, he loves Dick more than just about anyone, including his own father, yet they don’t share a single speck of blood.

“Nah,” Dick says. “He just needs an excuse to cover up for the fact that he’s scared he can’t be the baby forever.”

Barbara frowns. “You really think that bothers him?”  
  
“Trust me, I know it does,” Dick replies. “He may act like he hates it, but my brother loves being fussed over. The thought of a cute little baby taking his status away is bound to freak him out.” 

“Makes sense.”

“Plus, he adores me, and he doesn’t _ever_ want to be the second most important person in my life.”

“Ha,” Barbara barks out a laugh. “He’s already the second most important person in your life. Maybe even the third.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Dick jokes, then adds, “Seriously, though, I don’t like ranking people in terms of their importance. Everyone I love is equally special to me.” 

It’s true; Barbara knows it is. Dick’s capacity for affection is endless (sometimes annoyingly so), and he’d never even think of trying to rank his family members. Neither would she. Still, she can’t help teasing, “But I’m your favorite, right?”

Dick beams. “Always.”

 

* * *

 

Jim Gordon is annoyingly astute. When Barbara invites him out to lunch a few days after the weekly dinner at Wayne Manor, he immediately senses something is afoot.

“Why would you think anything’s up with me, Dad?” Barbara asks sweetly, and it takes every bit of her resolve not to blurt out the good news over the phone. Lord knows it would be easier that way, what with the stupid stomach cramps and constant fatigue that have been dogging her system for the past week. Gotham flu season is a plague.

“Because I know you, Barbara. You never have time to grab lunch on a Tuesday.”

She smiles in spite of herself. “Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf. Making more time for loved ones was my New Year’s resolution, and who do I love more than my dear old dad?”

“It’s December, honey.”

“I didn’t say I was successful,” she grouses, and there’s hearty laughter from the other end of the line.

“Okay, okay, I believe you. Let’s meet at the station in, say, three hours?”

“Perfect,” Barbara agrees, even if her roiling stomach doesn’t.   

She never makes it to the precinct. Instead, her father finds her hugging the toilet bowl in her apartment at half-past-two. Barbara smiles up at him. Her hair is tangled and matted to the back of her neck with sweat, and her upper body is racked with shivers, but she’s still so happy to see him.

“Sorry, Daddy,” she says, then pauses to once again empty the contents of her stomach. “I left my phone in the other room, and…” She doesn’t need to finish the sentence. He, of all people, understands. 

“Sweetie, you look terrible.”

“I know. I don’t think I have any stomach lining left.” 

Her father lifts her off the floor and helps her back into her wheelchair on the other side of the surprisingly spacious bathroom. “We need to get you to the hospital and have you checked out,” he says.

Oh, no. No way. “That’s not necessary,” Barbara begins, but he cuts her off with an authoritative, “Yes, it is. People have been dropping like flies from this strain of the flu. Hell, we got a report from a mother whose six-year-old died in front of her yesterday.”

“That’s awful, Dad — really, it is — but I’ll be fine. Besides, I have something way more important —”

“Barbara…” 

“Urgh. Fine.”

They go to Leslie’s instead of the hospital, but only because she convinces her father the clinic will offer more personalized care. After all, Barbara is married to Dick Grayson, and Leslie is a close, personal friend of the Wayne family. Really, she just wants to go there because it’s quicker.

Pee in the cup, give a blood sample, breathe in, breathe out. Barbara does it all without complaint. The less she says, the sooner they can get out of here and get back to the important conversation _someone_ refuses to have until he knows his little girl isn’t going to puke herself into a coffin.

“I hope Leslie has something they can give you, even if it’s just for your old man’s peace of mind.”

Fuck this. “Dad, Dick and I are adopting a baby.”

Barbara was right. Seeing his reaction in person is more than worth the three-hour wait. He looks even more startled than when Bruce sneaks up behind him in full Bat-mode. For several seconds, he just sits there with his mouth open, a perfect trap for flies, then shakes his head and mumbles, “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Whatever else he has to say is cut off by the exam room door opening and an oddly exuberant Leslie bustling inside. “Barbara, I have some good news for you.”  
  
“I’m not dying,” she says matter-of-factly.

“No, you’re not dying — but you are pregnant.”

The world is knocked completely off its axis. If her father was shocked a minute ago, he probably needs to be measured for a plot at Gotham Memorial Cemetery right about now. 

“That’s not possible,” Barbara says. “You told me I couldn’t get pregnant.”   

Leslie’s face is kind, understanding. “I told you the likelihood was significantly decreased because of your irregular periods and the level of internal damage you sustained.”

Barbara rifles through the index cards in her brain and pulls out the corresponding file. The words “extremely unlikely you’ll ever become pregnant” echo across her memory.

Leslie is right; she was wrong. But how? _Maybe you were so focused on the probability of becoming pregnant that you couldn’t allow yourself to hope that maybe, just maybe, you’d be the exception to the rule_ , her mind supplies. _You've always been annoyingly analytical in that way._

Barbara has hundreds of questions and emotions she needs to catalogue and sort through, but the only thing she can think to say is, “Can I see our baby?”

Leslie nods. Off to the side, her father wipes away silent tears.

 

* * *

 

Barbara officially discovers she’s pregnant at 4:36pm on December 21st. After much deliberation and plenty of out-loud arguments with herself, she decides to wait out the next three days, seven hours, and 24 minutes before telling Dick. They are, understandably, the longest several days of her life. Dick can sense something’s amiss, but she plays standoffish whenever he questions her, knowing he’ll back off and give her space. He’s always been respectful of her need for independence and tries, even when everything in his nature rails against it, to let her solve her own problems. 

They spend Christmas Eve with Dad and Sarah, whose cooking skills are sadly subpar compared to Alfred’s, and Barbara struggles to choke down the ham while her father shoots misty-eyed glances across the table. Thank God her husband is too busy trying to convince her stepmother dinner is actually edible to notice the thousand-yard glare she’s sure is stamped on her face. By the end of the night, the old softie’s come close to blowing her big news at least ten times. For a seasoned cop, he really is shit at keeping secrets.

When they finally stumble through the door to their apartment sometime after 10pm, Barbara begins to feel the first signs of nervous anticipation and stamps them down, joining Dick on the couch for their annual viewing of _It’s a Wonderful Life_. She thinks it’s cheesy, but he loves it —  “It _is_ a wonderful life, Babs! It really is!” That being said, she _does_ inexplicably find herself fighting back sniffles this time around when Mary tells George he lassoed a stork. _Hormones are horrible, fickle things,_ she thinks as Dick sniffles quietly next to her.

Her watch alarm goes off right in the middle of Jimmy Stewart’s iconic dash through the snow, and when she pauses the video, Dick is more than a little confused. 

“Babs, this is the best part.”  
  
“I know, babe, but it’s officially Christmas now, and I want to give you your present.”

The confusion lessens, and excitement is quick to replace it. “Okay,” he says, then sticks out his hands in an exaggerated ‘gimme’ gesture. She places a large manila envelope atop them.

“What’s this — divorce papers? Are the rumors really true? You’re leaving me for Bruce’s new gardener, Mason Rodd.”

“Let’s hope that sense of humor isn’t genetic,” she says softly.

His eyes go comically big. “Repeat that, please.”

“Open the envelope,” she replies, and Dick tears it apart with the gusto of an actual kid on Christmas morning. He stares intently at the sonogram picture on his bouncing knees for one, two, three seconds, then:

“Is that…?”

She shakes her head ‘yes,’ her throat suddenly too swollen for speech.

Dick shoots off the couch and does a quick lap around the room, then swoops down and grabs her from her wheelchair, throws her over his shoulder, and does another one, laugh-crying all the while. They fall in a heap on the couch after he finally tuckers himself out, and the kiss he gives her then is, without question, the best she’s ever had.

“I love you so much,” he tells her, and she repeats the words back. They sit sprawled on top of each other for what feels like an eternity, trading kisses and laughing in a way they haven’t since they patrolled the streets together as Batgirl and Robin.

Then Dick goes stiff against her. 

“We’re gonna have to tell my family all over again.”

 

* * *

 

Some women make pregnancy look easy. Barbara hates those women. She hates them when she wakes up twelve times a night with the overpowering urge to pee. She hates them when her nose starts bleeding freely in the middle of sex. She hates them when she can’t get to the bathroom fast enough and ends up hurling all over her keyboard. And she especially hates them when her body begins to swell and ache in places that make her feel like she’s about to tear out of her own skin. But she wants this baby, wants him or her more than she’s ever wanted anything, and Lord knows she’s been through a hell of a lot worse. An increased upchuck reflex and some Count Vertigo-level nausea are _not_ going to stand in the way of her appreciating every phase of her pregnancy. After all, who knows if she’ll ever get this chance again?

 _It’s a miracle_ , she tells herself each morning as Dick holds her hair back while she retches over the open toilet. _An exasperating, crampy, heartburn-inducing miracle._

At around the four-month mark, things thankfully start to settle, and Barbara finds herself genuinely enjoying being pregnant. The family is smothering, but that’s to be expected, and for once, she doesn’t mind the added attention. Damian calls her at all hours, checking to see if she’s taken her prenatal vitamins or whether she’s still exercising — “Low-impact aerobics are said to be highly beneficial for pregnant women.” Tim and Steph pop by after patrol with all sorts of weird food combos — “When I was pregnant, I got the strangest craving for bread and butter pickles with strawberry ice cream. Right, Tim?” Jason buys a box set of Canterbury Classics, playing it off with a shrug — “It’s never too soon to start ’em on the good stuff.” Cass takes up knitting and makes several pairs of tiny boots and hats — “I’ve heard babies get cold the first few months.” Even Bruce goes overboard, setting up a $50,000 trust fund and turning the spare bedroom closest to his into an elaborate elephant-themed nursery with hand-painted murals on the walls — “Dick always liked elephants.”

For her part, Barbara makes a point of speeding through all the hallmark pregnancy books and flagging the ‘Daddy’ chapters for Dick. He reads and rereads them, highlighting everywhere and having her quiz him when he’s done. It reminds Barbara of helping him prep for the SATs back in high school, only this time, she has a much more enticing reward system than doling out Reese’s Pieces for every right answer.

“How many weeks into pregnancy can the sex of the baby be detected?”

“Easy — 11 to 20.”

Kiss.

“How big should the baby be right now?”

“Well, you’re 16 weeks, so she’s probably four to five inches long and weighs about three ounces.”

“Very good. But we don’t know that it’s a girl.”

Longer kiss.

“How much weight should I gain next month?”  
  
“At least four pounds, one for each week.”

Barbara smiles. “You’ve done your homework, Mr. Grayson,” she says, then leans across the bed to kiss him again. His mouth opens warm and wet against hers, and suddenly, she has zero desire to continue their little quiz session. Her fingers tighten around the collar of his hoodie, effectively pulling him on top of her (she’s still small enough to make it work). He’s quick on the uptake, pushing at her leggings with one hand and unbuttoning her blouse with the other. His sweatshirt soon joins them on the bedroom floor. Of all the things Barbara loathes about pregnancy, her amped-up sex drive isn’t one of them.

“Again?” he asks, pretending to be put out.

“Again,” she confirms.

Dick’s fingers creep below her waistband, and for a moment, she loses the feeling. Then his hand is between her thighs, pressing at her center, and she can feel his wrist flex as three fingers slide in easily. “Shit, Babs,” he pants into her hair, “how are you this wet?”

Barbara takes a gulping breath. “You can take the girl out of the library,” she says as she pushes Dick’s head between her breasts. He mouths her nipple through the flimsy cotton of her bra while her hand slips between their bodies, palming his cock through his sweatpants for several agonizing seconds before reaching inside and squeezing. It’s just this side of painful. She can tell from the way Dick whines harshly against her ribs.

“What if… what if I told you I still had several overdo library books?” he shoots back. He’s trying to starts a new game, one Barbara’s more than happy to play.

She smirks, fingers gliding from root to tip, then stopping cold. “I — well, I suppose I’d make you pay me back with interest.”  

“Do sexual favors count?”

“Maybe,” she whispers, her hand resuming its maddeningly slow circuit.   

Dick’s head drops to her shoulder, and she can feel his eyelashes beating against her neck. He pushes his hips forward, desperate to gain some relief, but she stops again. “No cheating,” she says, the fingers of her other hand tightening against his hipbone.  

“S-sorry,” Dick says in a rush of hot air. He holds himself rigid above her, his body quaking with the effort. Satisfied, Barbara resumes jerking him off under his sweats with her left hand and stroking over his ass with her right. She rubs the tip of her nose against his cheek, then whispers, “Does this feel good?”

He turns his head to kiss the corner of her mouth. “So good,” he says, nearly broken, and Barbara has to chew her lower lip to keep from moaning. Making Dick Grayson — beautiful, stubborn, vibrant Dick Grayson — tense and shake and beg for her is beyond empowering, so she continues:

“You want something?”

“Yes,” he says quietly, still trying so very hard not to move. Barbara grabs his chin roughly and forces him to meet her gaze. His tan skin is touched with pink, and his blue eyes look big and black.

“What do you want, Dick? Be specific.”

He licks his lips wet and shining, then lowers his head and says, “I want — want you to fuck me.”

“Okay,” she says, then doubles the speed of her hand on his cock. He finally breaks and starts writhing against her.  

“No, Babs, no.” He shakes his head and groans piteously. “Not like that.”

“How, then?” Barbara prods, combing her fingers through his damp hair and kissing his forehead. “I told you to be specific.”

The words fly from his mouth — “I want to come inside you.”

A slow smile spreads across her face. “Go ahead.”

It takes less than three seconds for Dick to reverse their positions and push fully inside her. Barbara lays her palms flat against his chest, watching as his thumbs rub slow circles against her faintly swollen stomach. Once she’s had sufficient time to adjust, she relaxes her shoulders and says, “You can move now.”

Dick’s grip tightens, and he begins drawing her hips against his, picking up the pace when she starts babbling incoherently about how good he feels and how badly she wants him. It still isn’t enough.

“Harder,” she demands, her fingers leaving white rings around his wrists. He immediately obeys, pounding into her with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs. Not long after, they lose their rhythm, Dick trying desperately not to come and Barbara trying her damnedest to make him. She eventually wins out, clenching around his cock with all her strength and shoving him forcefully over the edge. Her body feels like an exposed nerve, acutely aware of each pulse and shudder. Then, without warning, she’s coming, too. 

She rolls off Dick’s lap a few minutes later and flops down on her side of the bed. The sheets are cool against her overheated skin, the room quiet aside from their labored breathing.

“That was nice,” Barbara finally says, and Dick’s smile is gorgeous.

“Nice enough to pay my library fine?”

She smothers a laugh against his shoulder, and they lapse into comfortable silence. Barbara’s eyelids feel like they have weights attached to the ends, so she lets them slide shut. She’s just on the cusp of surrendering to a much-needed nap when —

Her stomach comes alive with a tumbling, jabbing motion.

Barbara shoots straight up in bed, hands flying to her pregnant belly. The baby’s feet continue to flutter, and she gasps.

The sudden movement shakes Dick awake almost instantly. “Babs,” he begins, his voice scared and unsure, “are you hurt?”

She feels wetness on her cheeks. “No,” she says, taking his hand and placing it right where she knows he’ll feel the brunt of it. “The baby just started kicking.”

Dick’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Wow,” he says.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Wow.” 

Another powerful kick, then:

“She’s a total badass. I can tell.”

 

* * *

 

Dick is only half-right. As it turns out, the baby is a he, not a she. And who knows — he might also be wrong about the badass part, because as far as Barbara’s concerned, her oh-so-precious offspring is basically just _bad_ these days, kicking her through the night and pressing on her organs in a way that makes her long for the days of getting gut-punched by beefy henchmen.

She knew going into this that things would get progressively more difficult the closer her due date got, and she’s fine with that — really, she is — but the loss of freedom that goes along with it has been… hard. When she was first paralyzed, Barbara wouldn’t let anyone do anything for her. She’d always been headstrong, the type of little girl who picked out her own clothes and screamed bloody murder when her parents tried to tie her shoes, but this was different. It was no longer about showing the world that she was capable — it was about showing herself. If people wouldn’t respect her independence automatically, then she’d make them, even if it meant snapping at Dad when he tried to hold a door open or ripping the push handles off her wheelchair. And though the years have certainly dulled these more aggressive tendencies, Barbara still feels helpless whenever she can’t take care of herself, which is why she’s secretly mortified when her body turns traitor six weeks out, landing her in the hospital with a mild but still concerning case of placenta previa. Leslie’s suggestion?

“I know it’s not your preference, Barbara, but I think it would be smart if you and Dick moved into the Manor until the baby’s born.”

Dick nods vehemently. “Of course. Whatever you think is best.”

Barbara groans. _This is gonna suck so hard._

And it does. Check-in phone calls and unexpected Steak ‘n Shake deliveries are one thing, but being surrounded by family 24/7 with zero means of escape? That’s its own unique brand of torture. Most days, she doesn’t have a single moment to herself, even trips to the bathroom (either Dick is home and follows her inside, or he isn’t, and Alfred hovers by the door). Damian trails after her like a guard dog from the moment school lets out, mostly trying to force-feed her things he’s read are “nutritiously beneficial for my growing nephew,” but sometimes just wanting to be around her and feel the baby moving. She’ll never tell him, but she thinks his newfound excitement over being an uncle is unbearably cute. Steph and Jason, meanwhile, have made it their mission to bug her endlessly about names, the former hoping to get his own in the running, the latter obsessed with making sure she and Dick are up-to-date on all the latest and greatest choices. “Can’t be a cool baby with an uncool name,” Steph says by way of explanation. Too bad her idea of cool is Kash with a K.

The sole person who respects Barbara’s privacy, God bless her, is Cass, who only helps when directly asked. 

“Think you could you run upstairs and get me another cup of this decaf sludge? And maybe some real food — preferably red meat?” 

Normally, Barbara would never ask someone else to fetch her snacks, but the rest of the family is currently hip-deep in a crowd of fear-gassed Gothamites, and she’s running point as Oracle. She can’t leave the computer for something as trivial as sustenance, but she’s not sure she can survive the night without it either. Thankfully, Cass doesn’t seem to mind playing caretaker. She’s been benched for the next few weeks with a separated shoulder, and being cooped up in the house with her pregnant mentor while everyone else is out saving the city can’t be fun. At least these little tasks provide her a respite from staring at the monitor for hours on end.

“Alfred said he was making chocolate pudding. You want some of that, too?” Cass asks.

“Yes, please,” Barbara says without turning around. A few seconds later, she hears the bookcase door creak open. Damn, that girl is stealthy. In the echo chamber that is the Batcave, only Cassandra Cain can come and go without making the slightest sound.

Something on one of the security cams catches her eye. “B, I think I just saw Scarecrow. Looks like he and his cronies are heading for the docks.”

“Copy,” Bruce’s gruff voice responds over the open comm. “Robin and I are in pursuit.”

A new transmission from the police scanner on Barbara’s laptop tells her the GCPD are coming in quick.

“Hood, the Commissioner will be at Remsen and Dean in less that two minutes. Make sure he’s got backup when he arrives.”

Jason kicks a ranting civilian dead in the face, then says, “I’m on it,” rushing swiftly out of frame with a hoard of crazed pursuers.

Barbara pulls up a new feed showing Batgirl and Huntress taking down at least a half-dozen of Scarecrow’s thugs with a few well-aimed Batarangs and one seriously debilitating kick to the balls. “Nice work,” she tells them. “Now, rendezvous with Nightwing and Red Robin near —”

The baby rolls over, and she feels instantly sick.

“O, are you okay?” Stephanie asks, her voice jumping several octaves with worry.

Barbara grits her teeth. “I’m fine,” she says, then covers the microphone and glares at her stomach. “Tommy, please stop doing gymnastics while Mommy’s trying to work.”

He doesn’t listen, merely doubles down on the restless jerking. Barbara slams her open palms against the desk and takes several deep, calming breaths before continuing to monitor the Park Row cameras. When she finally finds footage of Nightwing and Red Robin, her heart sinks to her knees. They’re being mobbed — bitten and kicked and punched within an inch of their lives. If they don’t get help quick, they’ll be dead in a matter of minutes.

“Oracle,” Tim’s voice wheezes through her earpiece, “we need backup, stat.” He falls to his knees as the horde claws at his back. He’s able to fight a few of them off, but the numbers are just too high — cut off one hydra head, and five more spring up in its place. Nightwing, meanwhile, is trying to stop a panicked toddler from being ripped to pieces by covering her with the length of his injured body.

“Oh, dear,” Alfred says from over Barbara’s shoulder. It’s all she needs to snap back into action.

“Everyone, stop what you’re doing and get to Grant Park now! This is an emergency!”

Helena responds with a rushed, “Be there in three minutes,” and Barbara’s heart goes haywire. It’s not fast enough! They can’t wait that long without sustaining serious, potentially fatal injuries.

“We need to do something,” she nearly screams, whirling in her chair to face Alfred and Cass. “We can’t —”

And that’s when her water breaks.

 

* * *

 

Barbara Gordon isn’t normally the type of woman to panic. She’s the levelheaded friend of the group, the logical big sister, the analytical team leader with ice water nerves. But then, these are hardly normal circumstances, even for someone with her unique resume. Her husband is possibly dead, surely dying, her brother-in-law is in a similar state, she’s leaking amniotic fluid all over the Batcave floor, and the path to the nearest hospital is blocked by a murderous mob. All combined, it’s enough to send even the steadiest of minds into a full-scale meltdown. 

“I won’t leave,” she cries, trying her best to hang onto the desk while Alfred tugs her away by the back of her chair. “I need to know they’re okay!”

“What you need, Miss Barbara,” he says, now in full medic-mode, “is to get to the clinic and deliver this baby. I’m calling Dr. Thompkins to make sure they have a suite ready.”

Cass places a calming hand on the side of Barbara’s face. “The most important thing you can relax during labor is your mind,” she says with a sad smile, then adds, “There’s nothing we can do now. Help is on the way.”

Barbara turns back to the computer one last time. Batgirl and Huntress are 30 seconds out, 20, 10. A chunky heel connects with the spine of Tim’s lead attacker. The men stomping on Dick are thrown headfirst into a nearby tree. It’s hardly the confirmation of safety she wants (needs), but it’ll have to do.

“Bruce,” Barbara says, momentarily forgetting to use codenames on the open channel, “I need you —”

“I know, Oracle. I’m on my way.”

“No,” she says, wiping at her snotty nose with the heel of her hand, “not that. It’s… the thing is happening. Right now. I can’t reach him, but I need —”

Again, Bruce cuts her off. “I understand.”

“Thank you,” she says mechanically, then cuts both visual and audio feeds. If she’s going to do this and do it right, she can’t have any distractions. The safety of Dick’s child depends on her.

 

* * *

 

The next few hours fly by in a strange haze of Demerol and fear. Cass stays with her through it all, holding her hand and feeding her ice chips, leaning in to whisper words of comfort when she cries out for Dick in her delirium. When she doesn’t think she can push anymore, Leslie looks at her severely and says, “You have to,” so she does. Barbara feels like she’s being stampeded by a herd of elephants, but she willfully ignores it, biting the inside of her cheek and trying twice as hard. It feels like she’s been pushing forever. She tastes blood on her teeth, and her breath is coming in fits and starts. The sound of shrill screaming suddenly fills the room. It’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever heard, and she clings to it as her vision is swallowed by black. 

She doesn’t know how long she’s asleep, but when she finally wakes, the sun is setting outside. Her head is pounding and her muscles are sorer than sore, but the sight that greets her is enough to dull even her worst pains. Dick is slumped in the armchair next to her bed, his body even more battered than when he proposed. With his dual black eyes, Steri-Stripped eyebrow, and swollen jaw, he looks more like an extra in _Fight Club_ than a new dad. Moving beyond his face, Barbara notices a broken arm, and she can tell his ribs have been taped from the way he draws shuddering breaths.

“Morning, handsome,” she says, and he jerks to attention with a wince that’s soon replaced by the sweetest smile she’s ever seen. 

Dick reaches out with his good hand, brushes the stringy hair from her forehead. She turns to kiss the inside of his wrist. “Did you already meet him?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Dick says, and his eyes instantly puddle with tears. “He’s so perfect, Babs. Everything about him.”

“I want to see him.”

Dick nods, then rises from his chair and hobbles sluggishly into the hallway. As Barbara waits to meet her son, she finds herself growing nervous. What if she’s not ready? What if she’s a bad mother? What if her son doesn’t want her?

All of these thoughts die in an instant when Dick returns with Leslie, a tiny blanket-wrapped bundle cradled in her arms. She approaches the bed with a knowing grin and says, “Are you ready to meet your son, Barbara?”

She nods emphatically. “Yes, yes, I’m ready.”

And she means it. She’s never been more ready for anything in this life.

“John Thomas Grayson,” Leslie says as she lays the dozing newborn on her breast, “this is Barbara Gordon, your mother.”

For what feels like the tenth time in as many hours, Barbara finds herself unable to catalogue her emotions. “Hi, Tommy,” she says, removing the cute knit hat to run a finger over her son’s downy head. His hair is thick and black like Dick’s, and he’s got a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that look identical to the ones in her baby book. “Your daddy was right,” she says, completely overcome, “you are perfect.”

Tommy looks up at the sound of her voice, his blue-green eyes impossibly round and clear. He’s less than eight hours old, but Barbara feels like she’s known him her whole life. She loves this child more than anyone or anything, and she’d die for him without question. The realization scares and humbles her in equal measure. From the look on Dick’s face, he understands perfectly.

Leslie clears her throat. “I’ll let you three have a few minutes alone before I send in the nurse to help Barbara breastfeed.”

“Uh-huh,” they mumble in unison, neither one willing to take their eyes off Tommy for even a second. Once the door clicks shut, Barbara scoots over and pats the space next to her. It’s a cramped fit, but they manage all right, Barbara wrapping Dick’s good arm around her shoulder and tucking herself against his chest. Tommy audibly yawns. It makes them yawn, too.

“Thank you, Barbara,” Dick says, already half-asleep.

She laces their fingers together. “For what?”

“Giving me everything I ever wanted.”

Barbara smiles. They’ll have family to visit and pesky reporters to ignore before the night is through, but for now, she just wants to savor these scant few minutes alone with her two favorite people. “Same to you, Short Pants. Same to you,” she says with an even bigger yawn.

Damn, the next few years are going to be exhausting. She can’t wait. 

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! This has got to be one of the longest (and most difficult) fics I've ever written. But at the end of the day, it was a labor of love and totally worth it. Barbara Gordon is my favorite female character, and a woman's right to choose is one of the issues I'm most passionate about in life, so I figured, _Why not combine the two?_ After all, there's a startling lack of abortion storylines in comics, which I think is a real shame, not to mention a missed opportunity on the part of writers and creators. 
> 
> I've heard a lot of people say they don't think Barbara would be a good mother, or that they can't imagine her as a mother, and I've always disagreed (vehemently) with that notion. Although she's a much more guarded character than, say, Koriand'r, I think Barbara would make an incredible mother — as evidenced by her relationships with both Stephanie Brown and Cassandra Cain. I also believe that she and Dick would be perfect complements as parents. 
> 
> Another reason I wrote this fic was that I really wanted to explore what it would be like for someone with Barbara's injuries, both physical and mental, to embark on the journey of motherhood. Would she have doubts? Fears? Insecurities? How would her experience differ from that of any other heroine? I hope I did a halfway decent job of addressing these questions above. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, please leave a comment or kudos. I'd love to write more stories in this universe, and positive reinforcement/engagement is a big motivator for me. Thanks for taking the time to read, and I hope to see you again soon!


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